The dead sugar skull phylactery factory 

I’m the pit of a floating wreck. Decked in dreck and delivered with the deckle of dynastic disjuncture — stop me from breeding before this sickness festoons another dead end generation. A wireless conflict limned shows phrenological depressions — your skull is a paradise of the longing for extinction. I’m superstitious of cemetery intimacies and apparitions with no soils or tactile imposition on this earth. Find me a day of the dead sugar skull phylactery factory for my arms feel naked and uninhibited and my hands uncontrolled specters at the chopping block of reason. Once I witnessed humanity acting humanely — just that once. Since then it’s reliquary aplomb, nuclear options, and dayglo charnel enemas. What a wonderful world. I stand in the shadows, that’s where I look best. Your peculiar gait suits me — a shuffle of consternation. You appear lost. I’m distinguished by my lack of intellect and abundance of orifices. Aren’t we two of a perfect pair?

What I’m Reading:

When you’re born into this world, you’re given a ticket to the freak show. When you’re born in America, you get a front-row seat.

— Stephen Markley / The Deluge